Phone call

Serafíne
 

It is a truth universally to be acknowledged that an Ecstatic will be hung over on a Sunday afternoon.  So she is, half-dressed, raw and spare, in the sun-warmed kitchen of her shared home in Capitol Hill, picking apart a pain chocolat and drinking Darjeeling (with a soupcon of whiskey) while Dan - having updated Ginger in re: their plans - cooks her up a nice bit plate full of freshly sliced potatoes, with onions and peppers, all meant to make her feel human again. 

Do you have a minute?  - she texts to Ian.   She doesn't call him until he texts back to say: yes, yes he does, yes he does have a minute. 

Then she calls him, her voice a little rough from the night before.  Intimate, though.  Somehow her voice in one's ear always conspires to seem intimate.

"How do you feel about Kalen-sitting?"

Ian's response didn't come immediately, but it wasn't long (maybe fifteen minutes) before a text showed up on Sera's phone.

Sure. What's up?

So Sera called. And the first thing she said was: How do you feel about Kalen-sitting? Her question was greeted with a beat of silence, followed by a tired sigh.

"Why? Is something going on with him?"

Serafíne 

"Wouldn't tell me anything about him, not even a name.  Scolded me for asking because if someone else approached they might spook him.  Didn't even ask me how I was after the other night.  Which is: fine, by the way."  Still wry.  You know.

This time, the silence was palpable. Until Ian finally exhaled and said, "...Fuck."